The End
The stark depths that we had journeyed only solidified the
answers we sought, which were just under the surface of our ‘real’ thoughts … waiting
to open and to blossom unto the world. I’ve seen it first-hand as my eldest son,
then only three, sprinted to the front window of our suburban home in Boulder, Colorado,
emanating the sounds he had heard from a passing garbage truck … Bbbrrrerrr …
bbbrrrerrr… and with naked abandon looked at the machine that changed his world
view, or, no matter … meshed into it with ‘perfect’ precision. I’ve seen it as
the shuk salesman, in the Arab quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem, came out
of the backroom smiling, wearing an Ivy League hoody ready to bargain in
English on a really bitchin lighting fixture that now hangs over a semi-mural
covering my kitchen cabinets. And … I’ve seen it as I’ve read the words that
have been handed down for generations, for thousands of years, from a time that
has been so removed from our daily lives that it has been launched into the realm
of dreams and of nightmares for all ‘practical’ purposes; in the Torah.
As a young teen I had many problems with societal norms. My
legs had been casted and braced for Osgood-Schlatter’s disease for years,
causing me to separate from the world at large. I was incapable of team sports.
I was shunned on the playground. I was labeled a freak. So, when I found
friends that accepted me I found that they were all younger than I was—which is
one of the reasons that I was the tallest as we explored the tunnels under Boat
Canyon. The next canyon over was called Laguna Canyon, and there resided the
Boy’s Club, an after-school hangout with a gym, a woodshop, and other meeting opportunities
for young teens. Mostly I loved hanging out in the woodshop, but my father was
a college basketball star and wanted me to play too. My brother and I joined
the league and did our obligatory team sport. We sucked, for the most part. I
was always the tallest, so always put as the Center. This was the time just
before my Osgood-Schlatter’s kicked in, so I was unable to use that as an
excuse for my incompetence as a basketball star … which, actually, caused me to
rebel and to seek attention in other ways. I became a ‘problem child.’ And … the
principle of the Boy’s Club became my nemesis, and I his. So, as it turned out,
a lifetime of reliving, over and over, my revenge upon the principle of the
afterschool became my subconscious feeder-tube. I emerged from a manhole and
lobbed a hand-grenade at him. He exploded, but then morphed into a gazillion
tiny versions of himself, which I then tried to squash underfoot. Eventually, after
saving many of my younger compatriots as they were overwhelmed with the
gazillion tiny principles of the afterschool, we ran away back to the safety of
the tunnels below.
The tunnels always lead downwards, to the open expanse of
the Pacific Ocean. The way led us under the mall that was built upon the canyon
of boats, and we passed manholes letting light in from above. At each vertical
pipe junction there was a maintenance ladder installed that would allow workers
to descend into the tunnel we now traversed. We crisscrossed against traffic,
as all ‘young’ teens should, and ascended the ladders, catcalling and finger
poking through manhole finger-holes at passersby. Rarely would we hear a
response, and more often than not we would recoil as a passing car would
threaten to smash our fingers poking through the manhole cover-holes, just like white
worms expressing existence to the air above. The water in the bottom of the
tunnel became thicker as we descended downstream, with moss and debris
collecting at its edges. The sound of traffic overhead became a distant memory
as we inched our way downwards, deeper and deeper into the backfilled and artificial
earthen tomb. The worry was always that we would run out of matches, or our
candle would go out and we would be left in utter darkness. There was an extra-long
expanse as we tunneled under the Pacific Coast Highway, and we all feared the
time we’d spend completely isolated from the universe there. All we had, then,
was each other. The candle-glow on our faces was theatrical from the bottom up,
causing adrenaline to rush at every glance. The path was long before us, and
after, with no light in sight, but we continued on in spite of the younger one’s
protests. I was the tallest, so I went first, ducking, hopping, and skipping as
I went, hot wax creating abstract sculpture down to my wrist. I was the first
to see the light, but not the first to boast of its existence. The tunnel was
coming to an end, and the ocean waves began to resonate around us and bounce
off of the tunnel walls … Wwwishhhhwaah, wwwishssswaah… We emerged from the
concrete tunnel and stepped onto the warm sand. The ocean stood before us, as
if waiting patiently the entire time. We emptied out into Diver’s Cove, a place
I knew intimately from snorkel adventures and blowhole diving. The sea air
drove its way into my lungs and I breathed a sigh of gratitude for all that
existed in the world. It was ‘truly’ the beginning.
